one fateful day on the fourth of july
by Hihippy
Summary: Basically the section of Cleaning out the storage recreated. For the Fourth of July. Yes, I'm British and I write stuff for a holiday we don't celebrate. Leave me alone.


_no no no goddamnit why no_

all he could remember was the mud. the mud. it covered _everything. _slippy. dirty. heavy. ugh.

the sky kept spitting at him. he couldn't even see three feet in front of him sometimes. The gun felt heavy in his hands. He couldn't feel his feet.

he was tired. no, no he wasn't. he was annoyed. he was frustrated. he was angry. he was hurt. he wanted the sun. he wanted to see that blessed american sun that he longed for everytime he sailed away on the stretches of blue.

he wanted his america back.

he was outnumbered. in front of him - so close, so terrifyingly close in a wayword thought - streams and streams of blue, swashing in front of him, assembling, ordering,  
>fighting.<p>

england had never liked fighting

it was the only way he'd lived to see this day.

* * *

><p>He could feel it. He could <em>feel<em> it. The Power. The Strength. The Liberation. The _Freedom_.

Bang, Bang. March with the Dums. Parade. Arms. Ready.

So close. So close so close so close.

French aid. March One Two. Pushing, Pushing. Succeeding.

Naval Battle! Boom. One up to the French.

Outposts claimed! #9 and #10. Extensive Lines, made. Power. Strong. Victory.

He could taste it! He would win! He would show them, show every single one of them what he could do (march two three). He was not a child anymore. He was a nation. America was something and he was showing the whole world what he could do-

Stop.

Red.

* * *

><p><em>how have they got so many weapons it's bloody impossible i bet it's that frog why was he involved goddamnit he just wanted to make him miserable<em>

the mud sqelched beneath him. it felt like he was the only one on the battlefield.

he was tired. this had gone on long enough. there was a part in his heart, deep, down, deep down, that expected this 'silly' mess to end by america turning up at his tend with that childish, apologetic look in his eyes and ask to go home and make him tea

even though america threw all the fucking tea in the _harbour_, the ungrateful brat-

and then france got involved and he knew, he _knew_ then this wasn't some silly rebellion.

but he didn't think that america would listen to that _pathetic excuse_for a warring nation and- and and

_betray_him.

the gun shook in his hands, the rumble of orders rolled around him.

before he looked up and saw a smudge of blue. _that_ smudge of blue. his teeth gritted. hands shaking.

Steady. Aim.

* * *

><p><em>Why does he look so tired have I done that to him? I can't have done that to him England's big and strong and never gets beaten-<em>

He stared down at his hands.

He was staring down at a gun. In his hands. A gun that was in his hands for the purpose to fight. Who had taught him to fight?

England.  
><em><br>am i doing the right thing?_

'The redcoats are here!'

America suddenly didn't want to...

_i never wanted to fight you..._

the rain wouldn't stop and it was starting to drench him through.

ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum dum dum dum ba-dum ba-dum

* * *

><p>was that his heart? probably not it felt like it had been ruptured into tiny little pieces there was no way that his heart could manage such a force anymore<p>

they were going to fight. they were going to fight now england there wasn't any backing out now

they'd spent the last five years avoiding each other face to face because they both knew what it meant.

what it meant was war

and that it was real

and that he really meant it.

...well

well.

England couldn't allow that could he.

he was an empire. an Empire. He'd teach him a lesson

...

but he was still his boy-

* * *

><p>"England!"<p>

pant. pant. Stop panting you lobsterback this isn't the time to be piteous this was it _you should be taking me seriously now_

because he almost didn't

He was that close to turning around and running off and- no

"Hey.. Hey England!"

no.

America couldn't do this. Even after all they'd done to get to this he couldn't do this now it was impossible this was _England_ he was facing up against now this was _it _and-

_All _**men**_ are created equal and have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness_

"I'm not your little brother anymore!"

_look at me_

"I'm.. I'm independent!"

_I should be doing you so proud right now_

* * *

><p><em>you ungrateful excuse for a piece of landmass i'll show you where you can stick your 'independence' you immature piece of-<em>

he charged. he was alone and he charged at his brother. what did he have left in him right now? it was probably too late  
>but that never stopped him from trying<p>

he lunged at America because he was going to teach that boy a lesson he was going to _kill_him for daring to do what he did and-

he halted. England doesn't quite gather what he was about to do properly until he realises that America is now harmless and that all the army behind America had backed up and aimed their guns.

At him.

But he was aiming his gun at America and America was looking at him wide eyed with those blessed baby-blues of his in shock and surpise and _hurt_and and

He trembled.

_fuck_

he knew then that he'd never hurt him and never could and

he never would.

"...D-Damnit...

_i can't shoot you_

Why do you have to follow things through to the end?"

And like that all the energy was out of him and he was on the floor and in the mud

_because i certainly couldn't_

He couldn't shoot him. He couldn't shoot him. He couldn't shoot him and watch him die so that was it. He'd lost.

He'd lost the one thing that he thought cared for him.

He curled over in the rain

and sobbed.

"D-Damnit... _why_..."

* * *

><p>That was it. He'd won. He was free.<p>

But England was crying. England never cried. He'd only cried when he thought he'd lose him the first time right at the beginning and America didn't _like_crying so he tugged on the browed man's shirt and held his arms out for a hug so he could stop him crying

Because he liked making him happy.

England would stop him when he cried like when he'd fall over and he'd help himself up or when he was tired or lost or afraid and England would tell him it was okay and kneel down to him and smile and help him up or hug him or carry him or take his hand and lead him home.

He'd always be there to stop him being sad and that was what made America determined to do the same.

But...

England was at his feet crying

And he knew, he just knew, this time -

He couldn't do anything about it.

So for once, America held back his own tears.

_"... You used to be so big..."_

* * *

><p>Notes: I imagine that the battle we see in Hetalia is the Battle of Yorktown, which is the last battle before Britain surrendered.<p>

yes things aren't in capitals for a reason, which is more ~poetic~ than not. 


End file.
